Rite of the Devil
by Mercstouch
Summary: Esteban Bautista recruits Salem into La Guadaña, whether he wants to be a part of the "family" or not. Just a little fic about Salem's transition from Bautista's captive to his lieutenant. Should be two, maybe three chapters at most.
1. Chapter 1

Elliot Salem stirred from his fragile, sleep like state when jangling keys and unbolting locks sounded from behind the rusted, steel door. He flinched, the anxiety of what was to come hastening his heartbeat, and sending his panicky body into a trembling fit.

It had been eight weeks since he was pulled from the burning wreckage of his truck by Bautista's men. For eight weeks he had been in this prison, his own personal hell. It had been days since his last humble meal of a stale tortilla and bowl of lumpy, moist slop. Until recently, it hadn't occurred to him that it was dog food. He found it sadly appropriate. He felt like an animal. The room seemed more to him like a cage, or kennel than a cell.

There were no windows, the only source of light being the pale beams that slipped through the bars at the top of the steel door from which he watched thick dust particles dance languidly in the air. The room lacked a bathroom as well. The cartel proposed a bucket in the corner would suffice. That along with the fact he had been forced to wear the same clothing for eight weeks filled the prison with a vile stench, which he had gradually grown adjusted to. Visitors did not, however. The sickening smell only made the cartel members more vicious and sardonic toward him, earning him more beatings. The beatings. That's what struck his heart with terror every time that door was unlocked.

The most frequent, as well as sadistic visitor was Esteban Bautista. His seemingly unpredictable, erratic behavior sent Salem on edge. With the exception of the last few weeks, his stay at the compound had been a constant battle for survival. The consistent suffering and abuse probably would have been cut short if he had just given up the hope that Rios would rescue him. Until last week, he held onto that faith in his friend as if it were a thread holding him over a waterfall. But over time, that thread had frayed until it finally snapped. He had fallen. He was drowning.

Since becoming more compliant, there was a random mix of what Salem simply referred to in his head as good days and bad days. The good days ranged from feeding, to being completely left alone, to receiving his dose of morphine, which he was in desperate need of again. The bad days, well, he just hoped today wasn't a bad day.

As the locks continued to rattle, Salem eased himself up from his left side, the right being too badly burned to lay on. Though it was excruciating to move without the use of painkillers, he learned the hard way that Bautista preferred he sit up when in his presence. Salem leaned back against the concrete wall, stretched his bare feet out straight in front of him, and folded his hands in his lap. After the last bolt was unlocked, the steel door creaked open.

The first man to enter was the burly, scarred, machete wielding man whom Salem always assumed was Bautista's second in command. The man was always at his boss' side, ready to fulfill his next order. The second man to emerge from the doorway was Bautista himself. He wore a red, pressed cotton shirt rolled up to his elbows, expensive khaki pants, and a pair of genuine leather cowboy boots.

"Buenos días," Bautista greeted with a half smile as he sauntered across the filthy cell. He knelt down on one knee in front of Salem, the small, friendly grin still spread across his lips. "How is my amigo this fine morning?"

Salem released a shaky breath, unaware he was holding it in since the door began to open. "Bien, señor," he muttered nervously. "Gracias."

Bautista nodded, suppressing the smugness that threatened to creep into his smile. "Eh, that's my little luchador. He's a tough one, no? Muy fuerte."

He looked up to the scarred man, who simply grunted in agreement.

"Ah, look at you," Bautista remarked, his voice filled with concern as he took Salem's thickly scarred, trembling arm into his hands. He hissed, as if examining the wounds pained his own flesh. "Looks nasty, my friend. Most men wouldn't have lasted as long as you."

He waved over the man that stood behind him, and took from him a small, fabric case. Bautista unzipped the bag, and laid it out open on the concrete floor, revealing syringes, a blue tourniquet, and small vials strapped inside.

"You know," Bautista began, taking the tourniquet from the case, and tying it taut around Salem's left bicep. "You've really proved yourself to me, hombre. You got the will of ten men, a real fighting spirit. Most of these guys I recruit wouldn't have lasted a weak, but you-"

He slowly filled the syringe with the clear liquid from one of the vials, and put the tip of the needle to the bulging, blue vein in Salem's arm. "You really caught my attention."

Salem watched as Bautista eased the needle into his arm, and pushed down on the plunger of the syringe. He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes as he marveled at the rapidity of the morphine's soothing potency.

Bautista removed the needle, and returned the instruments to the case, watching the relief wash over his captive with a grin. "Yeah, that's much better. What I was saying, amigo, is that you've really shown me your worth during your stay with us, and I want to congratulate you, welcome you into the family."

"Family?" Salem murmured, his eyes becoming lidded with drug induced contentment.

"Sí, my friend," Bautista replied, playfully punching Salem on the chin. "I'm making you one of us. You've earned it."

Salem shook his head lazily in confusion, making Bautista chuckle.

"Hey, I know it's been a hard couple of weeks," he said sympathetically. "Your friends left you, abandoned you, but I'm taking you in, brother. This is your special day."

He looked Salem's filthy body up and down, then clucked his tongue in disappointment. "You can't be looking like this for the initiation, my friend. We're gonna have to clean you up, aren't we?"

Salem nodded anxiously, still unsure of the legitimacy of this offer, and terrified of objecting. "Sí, señor."

"No, no, no," Bautista gently corrected. "You call me jefe now."

"Sí, jefe," Salem muttered. He received a light, approving pat on his shoulder from Bautista.

"That's my little soldado. Tráelo a las duchas."

The burly man nodded at the command, and hoisted Salem up by the armpits. He guided him out of cell, then down the dimly lit hall toward the showers.


	2. Chapter 2

Salem stood shakily in the washroom, examining the grimy tile floor and lime stained shower nozzles that jutted from the walls.

"Quitarte la ropa," the burly man barked. Salem jumped at the gruff command, and looked at him in confusion.

"La ropa," the man reiterated, tugging at his own dirty wife-beater.

Salem nodded meekly in understanding. He gently tugged his scarred arm out of the sleeve of his t-shirt, wincing when the fabric grazed the sensitive tissue. With his right arm freed, he pulled the shirt up over his head, and dropped it to the floor. Though feeling self-conscious, he reluctantly removed his filthy jeans and underwear. A fractured mirror hanging over the sink caught his eye, causing him to shy at the sight of his own reflection. He saw for the first time the extent of the burns that plagued his right side. The scar tissue branched from his ear and cheek, down his neck, across his chest and back, until finally waning at his hip. He felt disgusting, shameful, not only because of the scarring, but the dark filth and bruises splotching his skin.

"Eh," the big man said brusquely, snapping his fingers to gain Salem's attention. "¡Apuráte!"

Salem flinched from the sharp command, but obeyed, stepping under one of the four shower nozzles. He swallowed thickly, placed his hand on the valve, and gave it a slow twist. The nozzle sputtered, then streamed scalding water over his greasy hair.

"Fuck," he whimpered, feeling as if the heavy droplets were boiling his skin. Still, he didn't dare turn off the water for fear of receiving discipline from the big man watching him. He quickly adjusted the temperature valve, cooling the searing water to lukewarm. Comfortable with the shower's temperature, he took a crusty bar of soap from a shallow shelf jutting from the wall, and began gently rubbing slow circles across his chest. He moved up to his shoulders and collar, then began working the soap down his body. Brown, sudsy water ran down his legs, and swirled across the off-white tile until finally disappearing down the rusty drain hole.

He rubbed the bar around in his hands, placed it back on the shelf, then began scrubbing through his hair. He relished the feeling of the soft lather foaming in his grimy locks. He put his back to the stream, and combed his left hand through his hair to wash out the filth, slowing when his fingers became tangled in knots and clumps of mud. Having finished washing his hair, he turned back around, and rubbed his soapy hands over his face. He then leaned with his forearm against the wall, and let the water run freely down his front.

He started when the water suddenly shut off. Wiping his eyes, he looked up to see the burly man glaring sternly down at him, his hand on the valve. The man tossed a soft towel at him, and again grumbled in Spanish for him to hurry up. Salem ruffled the towel through his hair, wiped down his upper body, then wrapped the cloth around his narrow waist. He looked to the big man for direction.

"Te afeites," he growled, nodding to the sink under the cracked mirror. Placed neatly on the edge of the sink was a tin can of shaving cream along with a straight-edge razor, a tube of toothpaste, and a plastic toothbrush. Salem approached the sink slowly, as if any sudden movements would somehow incite the big man to attack like a wild animal. After squirting a dollop of shaving cream onto his hand, and applying a generous amount to the left side of his face and neck, he took the razor in his hand. Eight weeks had allowed a thick beard to accumulate on only that section of his face, the other side having been burned of the hair follicles. Turning his head, and stretching the corner of his mouth in order to gain a better angle, he began grazing the razor across his face. He took careful measure to not tear the delicate scar tissue, slowly scraping the instrument against the hairs growing on his upper lip and chin that were dangerously close to the burns.

When he was finished, Salem rinsed off the cream, cleaned out the sink, folded the razor, and examined his face. A combination of the razor's dullness and his own lack of bravery with handling the instrument left a fine layer of light stubble. Though it wasn't a clean shave, he figured it was better than a lop-sided beard. He cringed at the close reflection. The lack of sleep and healing bruises left dark circles under his tired eyes, making him look sickly, near dead. His sunken cheeks and collar bones simply added to the effect.

The last couple of months, he had often wondered if he was dead, if all this really was hell. This place seemed to feed off of his fears. The cell was small, claustrophobic, constraining, and though he was relieved to be free of the prison, the rest of the compound seemed no better. It was more spacious, yes, but he was still a captive, still trapped, and that in itself terrified him. In this place, he was also more alone than ever. Lack of food and sleep had turned his mind against him, and he'd often hallucinate about his rescue, or even just a decent meal or bed, only to snap out of it and find he was still in that room, still laying curled up on the floor, still alone. He still wasn't sure what was happening now wasn't just a figment of his desperate imagination. If it was all in his head, it was probably to best to play along and enjoy while it lasted.

After brushing his teeth, he combed his still-damp bangs off of his forehead with his fingers. Looking at himself now, he felt pushing his hair back on his head made him look like some kind of villain from an old movie or comic book. He scoffed, thinking about how he'd just become a part of a Mexican cartel. So, maybe he was one.

Thinking back to his time in the Rangers, and even at SSC and TWO, Rios had told him that what they were doing was good, clean, and he was stupid enough to believe him. He couldn't remember a time in his life when he felt "clean." Whether Rios excepted it or not, they were killers. It wasn't as black and white as he made it out to be, that they were the good guys stopping the bad guys. The blood of countless men were on they're hands, they were both drowning in it, and Salem knew no amount of good deeds could wash out the red.

The concept of being morally righteous, Salem had witnessed over the years, dictated Rios' actions. What he also witnessed, though, was when those moral decisions required sacrifice, he was the one to take the fall. He was sacrificed in Shanghai, and he was sacrificed here. All for the innocents. All for that girl. If being good meant he had to lose everything, he was finished. If being the villain, the bad guy, meant for once he wouldn't have to suffer, so be it. He looked closely into the cracked mirror, and decided from now on, he wouldn't be the fall-guy anymore. The Elliot Salem that fought, loved, suffered, sacrificed everything for the ones he loved only to be thrown away was dead. This was his new life now. He was going to live it for himself. He refused to put his life in someone else's hands. He refused to be thrown away. He refused to make the same mistakes again.

He turned back to the big man, waiting for his next command, unaware of the tear trailing down his cheek. He big man scoffed, then tossed Salem a pile of neatly folded clothes. He ran his thumb over the grey button down shirt on the top of the pile, completely in awe of the cool fabric's softness. He laid the clothing on the edge of the sink, unwrapped the towel from his waist, and let it drop to the floor. He then slipped on the cotton boxers found under the shirt and belt, closing his eyes in contentment at the feeling of finally having clean underwear. Next, he pulled a pair of black trousers from the bottom of the pile, and put them on. The pants, being too big (or him being too skinny), began slipping down his thin hips. He took the shiny, black belt from atop the pile, then looped and fastened it taut around the trousers' waist. Lastly, he donned the grey shirt. He buttoned it nearly to the top, and fixed the collar, then tucked the bottom of it neatly into his pants. He sighed in relief, and examined himself in the mirror as he folded up his sleeves to his elbows. The clothes, though not casual, were a nice change from the rags he was forced to wear before. For the first time in too long, he actually felt like a human being.


	3. Chapter 3

The scarred man shoved Salem through an open doorway into the oppressive heat outside the main building of the compound. He threw his cuffed hands over his eyes to protect them from the blinding, midday sun. Blinking a couple times, his eyes began to adjust, and he lowered his arms. In front of them, parked in the sand awaited a shiny, black Cadillac Escalade with the rear door held ajar by an armed cartel member.

Salem jumped when a thick, rough hand squeezed the back of his neck. He looked over his shoulder to see the scarred, ursine man grabbing him from behind. The man barked an order in Spanish, and shoved him toward the car. He pushed Salem's head down as the small man stepped into the vehicle, and nudged him to the middle seat beside another gangster so he could join them. The big man shut the door, and the Cadillac's driver turned the key, making the car roar to life. He steered the vehicle down the dirt road that ran through the compound, and out an entrance guarded by towering, metal gates and armed men.

It was a long, nerve-racking drive. Salem sat rigid between the two gangsters, his only movement, the anxious tapping of his foot, disclosed his anxiety. He peered out of the corner of his eye at the big man to his right, then over to the unfamiliar cartel member to his left. The man clearly was one of the higher ups. Salem knew enough about the cartel to know Bautista didn't issue grunts military grade tactical gear and personalized, high powered assault rifles.

He found it strangely comical that they felt the need to keep him under such a watchful eye. Did they think he would run? All his years in the military, both private and not, had made it instinctual to look for an escape, and he'd already conjured up seven different scenarios of how to get out of the car, but the more he imagined his getaway, the less he saw the point. Even if he survived the escape, and evaded being shot in the back as he ran across the desert, where would he go? There was no more home. His home had left him in a burning truck. To the world, he might as well be six feet underground. He was dead, and maybe it would be better if he stayed that way.

He wondered how the others reacted to his death. Did they mourn him? Did they miss him? Since before he could remember, he doubted in anyone's commitment to him. He assumed if anyone decided to stick with him, it merely served their own gain. Why else would someone put up with him? Clearly, he'd been too much of a burden for Rios, making him so easy to give up, and apparently giving him up wasn't too difficult, considering the big man had done it to him twice.

Salem didn't know what he had did wrong. He had thought the bond between him and Rios was strong, unbreakable, but like most good things in his life, it came to an end, and he was confused as to what he had done to ruin it. He'd devoted his life to Rios, risking life and limb, taking multiple bullets, even one from the big man's own pistol, to make sure he came home alive to his family, a family he apparently wasn't a part of anymore. It was different when he was younger. They were so close, and he felt so loved, like he belonged somewhere for the first time in his life. But looking back now, it seemed more like he was a pitiful, stray puppy picked out of a cardboard box on the side of the street. Sure, the strays are cute and lovable when they're little, so eager to please, but then they grow up, and they're not so fun anymore. Those mutts become so easy to throw away. They end up back on the curb where they were found, just wondering what they did wrong.

For the rest of the drive, Salem remained still, silently listening to the incomprehensible conversation between the two men at his sides, his head spinning with the grief of loosing his old life, and the fearful anticipation of the new one to come.

"¿Por qué Bautista le quiere este pestiso?" the armed man to his right asked.

The big cartel member to his left chuckled. Salem could feel his eyes looking him up and down. "No sé," he answered. "Parece como una calaca. El ratón dio pelea, aunque. ¿Conoces Héctor?"

"¿Héctor Ortiz? Sí, lo conozco," the other answered curiously.

"Este cabrón es el hombre que rompió sus brazos y pierna," the big man explained, nodding to Salem.

"Mis huevos," the one to the right said in disbelief.

"Es verdad," the bigger chuckled. "Lo encontré él tratando matar Héctor en su celda. Él lo estaba aplastando su cuello y gritando como fue loco."

The cartel member to Salem's left cocked an eyebrow, intrigued by the story. "Tal vez él es loco," he laughed. "Tal vez eso es porque Bautista le quiere."

"Tal vez. Casi le disparé," he said, pointing his index and middle finger in the shape of a gun at Salem's temple. "Casi le disparé directamente en la cabeza, pero Bautista me paré. No pude matarse, así que lo golpeé hasta que el pendejo paró atragantarse Héctor. Este pestiso es pequeño, pero es un matador. Lo he visto en sus ojos." A small, wicked grin spread across his lips.

The other gangster scoffed, eying Salem carefully before turning to look back out the car window at the desert landscape that stretched around them for miles. "Veremos."

By the time they had reached their destination, the sky had turned a fluid blend of pinks, blues, and oranges from the setting sun. As the car ambled down the dirt road toward the compound, one of the two armed guards standing outside the protective outer walls grabbed the bars of the square, steel gate, and slid it to the right, opening the entrance for the approaching vehicle. The SUV pulled into the compound, and made its way down the snaking dirt road. Salem looked out the sand-flecked car windows at the sparse rows of old barns and warehouses that passed by, which he assumed were used for storing drugs and other contraband that were to be shipped across the border. Beyond the tin storage warehouses and heat-distorted horizon, he could make out another building, this one much larger and encircled by white walls and guard posts. The car neared the building, passed through another set of metal gates, and circled around the picturesque fountain that stood ostentatiously in front of the large home.

When the vehicle pulled to a stop, the big man to Salem's right stepped out onto the sun-baked concrete drive, dragging the smaller man out by his arm. Salem stumbled out of the car, regained his footing, then stilled to stand in awe of the house. No, not house. Mansion or palace better suited the beautiful, gargantuan residence. The three storied, hacienda-styled home was topped with deep, tangerine orange tile roofing, and its white exterior matched the surrounding walls. A variety of flowering cacti, vibrantly green ferns, and fragrant desert roses garnished the shallow front lawn. Scenic terraces jutting from the second and third floors provided an expansive vantage point for the viewer to overlook the entire compound, like a King keeping a watchful eye over his kingdom. The vibrant colors and textures of the home gave it the feel of a secluded desert oasis.

He once again felt the big man's hand gab him from behind, this time taking a hold of the back of his gray, button down shirt as he guided him toward the large double doors serving as the entrance to the mansion. The other cartel member that rode with them followed, and flipped open a panel to the left of the front doors, revealing a numeric key pad. He perfunctorily typed in an eight-digit code, deactivating the security system. He twisted the curved, golden door handle, pushed the left door open, and entered. The big man followed, ushering Salem into the spacious foyer.

The interior of the home was, in Salem's opinion, as beautiful as it's exterior, and just as gargantuan-looking. The white walls, and beige, limestone tile floors seemed to shine from the bright sunlight penetrating through the wide, casement windows and skylights overhead. An assortment of wicker and ceramic vases holding blood red desert roses garnished espresso-colored end tables and the base of the towering, spiral staircase that wound up to the palace's second floor.

The big man guiding Salem silently trailed behind the other cartel member through the palatial abode, turning numerous corners, and crossing just as many lengthy corridors until stopping at another set of ornate double doors. The armed cartel member once again pushed open the doors, and entered, the other two men close behind. The doors served as the entrance to a great dining hall that carried the same paradisal feel of the luxurious facade. Though the home seemed like heaven on earth compared to his previous dwelling, Salem couldn't help but feel a sense of dread.

The burly, scarred man pushed Salem down into an empty seat at the end of the long, thin dining table that stretched across the gigantic room. In front of him, on top of a white, linen placemat, sat a white porcelain plate, a folded, linen napkin, a set of glimmering silverware, and an empty wine glass. A matching set of dishes sat at the opposite end of the table. His place at the table was meant to showcase him as a guest of honor, but with the armed men watching over him, he felt more like a convicted prisoner awaiting his sentence. The man that would sit at the other end of the table would act as the judge, ultimately determining his fate.

Within a few minutes, footsteps approached from behind, and the familiar voice of his captor echoed through the room, as well as his skull.

"Lo siento para mi tardanza," Bautista apologized as he sauntered past Salem, and took his place at the head of the grand table. "Had some business to take care of prior to our little rendezvous. As you can imagine, amigo, I'm a very busy man."

Another set of clicking footsteps neared, these more slow than Bautista's, and louder. Salem saw a movement in the corner of his eye, and watched as a lean, blonde woman in tall, black heals ambled casually across the dining hall, widely swaying her bony hips with every step. She was dressed in a black, fishnet jumpsuit, the only concealed part of her body being the center of her front and back side, which were hidden under tight, black fabric, leaving her arms, and sides clothed in sparse, black netting. Golden bangles hung loosely on her gaunt wrists. She looked over her shoulder to Salem as she passed, giving him a flirtatious, yet sinister smirk. When the woman reached the end of the table, she sat on the right arm of Bautista's chair, and rested her elbow on his shoulder.

"Eh, you look well, my friend," Bautista said with a friendly smile. "You clean up nice. What do you think, Jesse?"

The blonde woman scrutinized Salem with her dark, thickly made-up eyes.

"He's skinny," she said with a condescending southern drawl. "Pretty small all over, if ya ask me."

"Ah, cállate," Bautista chided, his joking and relaxed mood seeming extremely forced to Salem. "We found him that way, but don't worry. We'll make him big and strong, huh Flaco? Just needs a good meal is all. A propósito, have them bring out the food. I'm starving."

Behind Salem, the big man glared sternly at the other armed cartel member, who rolled his eyes, and exited the room in a huff. He returned shortly with two well-dressed waiting staff in tow, and returned to his place next to the big man to stand guard. The two waiters moved swiftly and silently across the room, one holding a black serving tray over his shoulder, the other grasping a bottle. As one gently placed a porcelain plate of food in front of Bautista, the other filled his glass with a deep red wine.

"I considered having my chef cook us up some tostadas de pollo with a side of roasted tomatillo chile salsa," Bautista said cooly. "But I figured a simple sirloin would suit you better. You American's don't seem to handle our food very well."

The staff approached Salem, silently served him the steaming dish, and poured the crimson, alcoholic drink into his glass. The famished man looked down at the lightly seasoned steak and cooked greens, keeping a stone face, and fighting back the almost animalistic urge to immediately devour the fresh meal. If he wasn't in the presence of a murderous drug lord and his goons, he would've cried at the sight. Though his malnourished body screamed for him to sink his teeth into the succulent cut of meat, he refrained, uncertain of his host's motives for serving him such a dish. Bautista took note of his tension, and chuckled, making Salem flinch.

"Go ahead, amigo. Eat up," he insisted amiably, cutting into his own steak. "You think I sprinkled a little tóxico on your food, huh? Ha, well, I don't blame you. It wouldn't be the first time. Jezebel?"

The woman nonchalantly stood from the chair's wooden arm, and sauntered toward Salem, her heels tapping loudly against the beige tile floor. She gave him that same coquettish, yet malicious smirk as she leaned on the left arm of his chair, took the silver steak knife and fork into her delicate, bony hands, and gingerly carved into the slab of meat. The woman dug the fork into the small cut with poise, and wrapped her lips around the silverware, maintaining eye contact with Salem as she slowly chewed.

"Delicious," she purred, looking him up and down. She placed the utensils back down onto Salem's plate, and much to his dismay, remained at his side, watching. As he raised his hands from his lap to pick up the silverware, she laced her fingers under his glass, and raised it to her mouth. Taking a small sip, she smiled down at him, and placed the glass back down on the table, leaving a bright red lipstick stain along the rim.

"The wine's exquisite, too," she said lazily, not taking her eyes off of him. "Where did you say you got it, Esteban?"

"Baja California," Bautista replied. "Made from grapes grown in el Valle de Guadalupe, and fermented in a winery right in Ensenada."

Salem smiled politely, and took a small bite of his steak. He forced himself to eat slowly for fear of coming off as rude in his host's presence, and for fear of upsetting his shrunken stomach. He'd rather not have his final act of life be vomiting in a drug lord's mansion.

"That's a long way from where I came," Bautista continued. "Ensenada, I mean. When I was just a boy, my father moved us from Guerrero to the north to find better work. The cities near the border seemed to have more opportunities than the slum. He worked for years to get his own taller mecánico, but it didn't work out so good. We lost almost everything because of that damn shop. Looking back now, I see it as fate. After my father left us, I had to step up and make a living for my mother and myself somehow, so I started working on the streets. Like my father, I worked for years to get where I am, but unlike him, I succeeded. I entered this city feeling like it owned me, but now I own it. I guess what my point is, amigo, is that fate sometimes deals us a heavy hand, but sometimes it's simply all the pieces coming together perfectly. So, tell me, Elliot Salem. How has fate brought you to my dinner table?"

He could see Salem's surprise and discomfort, and chuckled. "Yes, my friend, we know your name. That's about it, though, besides the stories we've heard of the invisible Ejército de Dos. It was almost flattering having you as an adversary, especially after we saw what you did to the Maras. I've had some of my best guys try to dig up any intel on you, but came up practically empty-handed. TWO's done a good job keeping you under wraps. So, let's start from the bottom, Flaco. ¿De dónde eres?"

Salem stilled, unsure of the question.

"Where you from, honey?" the woman asked, walking her pointer and middle finger over his shoulders.

"Oh, uh, Louisiana," he answered, his voice wavering a bit.

"No shit," she smiled, playfully slapping his shoulder. "We've got ourselves a southern boy." She began twirling the hair at the base of his skull around her fingers. "I'm from Mississippi myself. Vicksburg. That's right on the border of Louisiana, you kn-"

"Let him talk, Jessie," Bautista interrupted. "Louisiana. Sounds like you had some humble beginnings yourself."

"Guess you could say that," Salem replied.

"Seems we got a lot in common," Jezebel smiled, biting her red lips. "How's 'bout after the festivities, you spend the night at my place?"

"Uh, that's-"

"I'll take real good care a him, Esteban," she said, stroking his hair behind his ear.

Bautista laughed. "Go ahead, Casanova. You can borrow her for a night. Pretty sure everyone in this goddamn compound has."

The armed cartel member behind them chuckled, making the woman roll her eyes as she continued to comb back Salem's bangs. "Go ahead and laugh, pencil dick. I'm probably the only piece of ass you got in years."

The man's chortling ceased, only to be replaced by the scarred man's bellowing laughter.

"You know, don't sweat it, my friend," Bautista said casually. "I'll get you a girl, one of the new ones from Sinaloa. Only the best for my little soldado, eh? Now, how about family? Anybody waiting for you back in the states?"

"Family? Yeah, I mean, well no. Not really...We're related, but-"

"But not family," Bautista finished. "I understand that more than you'd think, amigo. Most of the recruits my boys bring in are alone, abandoned, looking for somewhere to belong. And they find a place here, with us. We're brothers not in blood, but brothers all the same. You understand?"

Salem swallowed thickly, and looked down at his plate. "Thought I did."

Bautista held back a smirk, pleased with how easily he could manipulate the weak man. "I see," he said solemnly. "The other three mercenaries were your brothers, no?"

"No," Salem answered in a hoarse voice. "Just one. The other two were just a couple a new guys, stupid kids we just hired." He paused, furrowing his brow. "Did they... They make it out okay?"

Bautista sighed. "I was informed three left the compound on a TWO chopper. Two men and a girl."

"What?" Salem asked, his chest tightening. "What do ya... What do ya mean two guys? Which one didn't..."

"I believe," Bautista said, pulling a folded, crumpled paper from his pocket, and flicking it across the the table. "He was the man in this photo."

Salem eyed the paper warily, then leaned forward, reaching over his plate to pluck the small square from the table top. He released a shaky breath, and began unfolding the photograph. The sight of the old, familiar picture that was always tucked in his worn, leather wallet shot a pang of grief through his body. He remembered capturing the photo himself years ago. It was only hours after he and Rios had been extracted following their first successful mission with TWO. They were in a company chopper, the jungle behind them a green blur in the picture. Rios had his big arm around the smaller man's shoulders, both sporting goofy, tired, somewhat bloody grins. Though at the time he had multiple flesh wounds and fractured bones, Salem remembered feeling invincible in that moment, like nothing could touch him. Everything seemed simpler back then. He had money, adventure, his closest friend by his side. It was just them against the world. Now, he felt more alone than ever.

His last attachment to the outside world was gone, making him once again feel that horrifying sense of entrapment. He was furious at Rios for leaving him behind to save a stranger, for sacrificing him in Shanghai, for not returning the unconditional love Salem had given him all those years, but now he felt that rage begin to diminish, only to be replaced by complete heartbreak and mourning. No matter what the big man had done to him, he could never stop loving him, and he hated himself for it. Even after being seemingly separated for good, their lives were still despairingly intertwined, and he felt that with the end of Rios' life, his immediately followed.

"You okay, hon?"

The woman's languid voice snapped him back to reality. He looked down again at the photograph, which was pulled taut in his shaking, clenched hands. He noticed he was breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating. The room was spinning, and it seemed the only thing anchoring him to consciousness was the woman's bony hand rubbing circles between his shoulder blades.

"That can't be right," Salem muttered, struggling to keep whatever composure he had left. "I mean...no, not Tyse. He can't..."

"I'm sorry for your loss. Really, I am," Bautista said, taking another small sip of his wine. "But it sounds like it was for the best.

"He was my-"

"What? Your friend? Your brother?" Bautista shook his head, then took another bite of his steak, chewed, and swallowed. "You gotta get it through your head, amigo. Brothers don't leave brothers to die. He left you in that car to burn, but my guys pulled you out of the fire. I'm giving you another chance, hombre. This is your new life now, and we're you're new family."

Salem leaned his elbows on the edge of the table, and held his face in his hands, still not completely sure if this all wasn't just another sick dream. "Why couldn't he just listen to me? Why couldn't he just for once... That stupid girl. That stupid fucking girl." He muttered, his voice gradually dying down to a shallow whisper. "I told him to go, to leave her, but he-he put us all at risk for some worthless, stupid girl that got in the way. All 'cause he thought she was an innocent. Self-righteous bastard, why'd you have to go and leave me again?"

Bautista eyed the man across from him with immense intrigue and satisfaction. Deceiving his captive regarding Rios' death isolated him, made him easy picking. He needed this man's skills. Money could buy man power, loyalty to a certain degree, he had seen that in the young men recruited off the streets, in the police officials and politicians that were so easily bribed, but what he found harder to come by was the high-grade virtuosity for killing displayed in the man he now called his guest. Salem was a professional, one of the best in his field, the battlefield, and quite frankly the best money could buy. But PMCs like TWO had their standards, which illegal Mexican cartels understandably were unable to attain, making the best money could buy just out of his affluent reach. Now that TWO and his captive's partner were out of the picture, Salem had nowhere to run, and no reason to. Elliot would have everything he thought he needed right here. Besides his skill set, Bautista saw this man no differently than the pathetic, desperate scum he managed to coerce to do his bidding. Salem had nothing to loose, but everything to gain, and Bautista was willing to offer just that if it meant having at least one half of the Army of Two under his thumb.

"You know," Bautista began, leaning on his elbows like the man across from him. "In a way, this reminds me of the story de la Biblia my mother always spoke of. She told me that before God created Adam and Eve, he had his angels, Lucifer, ironically, being the favorite. I'm sure you know what happened to him, but do you know what he did to be despicable enough for God to cast him down from the heavens?"

Salem lowered his hands from his burning eyes, folding his arms as he stared down blankly at the table's shining surface. He slowly gazed up at Bautista, lazily shaking his head 'no' in response.

"He refused to bow down to humanity," the drug lord answered. "He refused to kneel before creatures he viewed as so flawed believing it would betray his devotion to his father. God took this as defiance, and cast Lucifer, his most beautiful creation, from heaven. And why? Because Lucifer loved God more than anything. He loved his father too much, and he lost his grace because of it."

Salem swallowed thickly, becoming rigid as he took in Bautista's words. He watched the man across from him shake his head, and lean back into his chair.

"And with all I've seen, amigo, I find it easy to believe God is dead." Bautista took one last swig of his wine, emptying the glass, and examining the last crimson drop of his drink slide to the base of the cup. "And that El Diablo walks the earth."

Note: the translation for the dialogue between the two cartel guys in the SUV was pretty much the scarred guy saying that though Salem is small, he's seen him be crazy and dangerous, and tells the other guy about how he tried to kill another cartel member named Héctor Ortiz and broke his arms and one leg. Bautista wouldn't let the scarred guy kill Salem to save the other guy because he wanted Salem alive, so scar guy beats him until Salem lets go. I'm not a native spanish speaker and have only had three years of the class, so this may most likely be very botched. Thanks for reading :)


	4. Chapter 4

Salem winced as the scarred man roughly snapped the thick, ballistic collar into place around the back of his neck. He looked down at the heavy tactical vest, and metal shoulder pads strapped to his upper body over his fresh, white sleeveless shirt. His recently acquired, faded blue jeans fell in thick folds around his canvas boot-clad feet. Apart from the leaden panoply weighing down his emaciated body, the clothes felt comfortable, natural, as if he had pulled them from his own dresser drawer back in his Miami apartment.

He shook the painful thoughts of his old life from his mind, cursing himself for mentally bringing it up. The places and people he regarded as his home were gone now, dead, and if he'd learned anything in his life it was that once something was dead, it was better left that way. The pains of the past were better forgotten and locked away where they couldn't touch him, couldn't hurt him anymore, but for some things that was easier said than done.

Grazing a gloved hand over the right front pocket of his jeans, he could feel the hard, thin square shape of the folded photograph he had hastily hidden away when he was told to change out of his formal attire. Salem feared Bautista would have reclaimed the crumpled picture, stealing away one of the last tangible mementos tying him to his old life, as well as his closest friend. He had just learned of Rios' death hours ago, and he wasn't ready to say goodbye. Everything seemed to be moving so fast, and he felt himself slipping away with every second he was in the compound. He was losing control of his life fast, falling under seemingly everyone's will but his own, and he wanted to hold on to just a little piece, even if it was something relating to the man that abandoned him here in the first place.

"It suits ya, hon," he heard the blonde woman's velvety voice say from behind. Her heels tapped loudly against the home's tile floor as she slowly approached him. "Makes ya look like ya have some meat on yer bones. Can't have ya lookin' like a twig in front of this crowd."

Bautista chuckled, watching them from a deep, leather chair off-centered in the sun-kissed living room. "Don't listen to her, 'mano. You're one of us now, and tonight everyone's gonna see that. You listening, amigo?"

Salem, distracted by his thoughts, was staring blankly out one of the wide, casement windows at the desert expanse stretching across the darkening horizon. He snapped back to attention, yanked from his mournful brooding by Bautista's question. "Huh? Yeah, yeah. Sorry, I was... Wh-what happens tonight, exactly?"

"Just a little initiation ceremony," Bautista explained. "A rite of passage, if you will."

"More like a wild party to me," Jezebel added with a smirk, lightly scratching her bright red fingernails over Salem's metal shoulder pad as she came around to his front. "They can be like a bunch a animals, real eager for some fresh meat. I know I am."

"I'll agree with you there, ramera," Bautista said with a laugh. "The guys like to have a little fun with new recruits. They can get a bit...theatrical. Look, don't worry about it, amigo. It's something all novatos gotta do. No te preocupes."

"And, uh, how 'bout afterwards?" Salem asked meekly. "Where do I go?"

"Thought you were gonna stay with me, sugar," the woman said kittenishly, gently running a crimson claw along the unburned side of his jaw, inclining his chin. "We could have a lotta fun, you and I. You need some attention, Southern boy. Poor thing. Been alone this whole time."

Salem found himself extremely tempted to lean into her delicate touch, but refrained, still completely distrusting of his surroundings. He was so tired of hurting, and this sudden tenderness seemed about as out of place as he was. He could sense this whole situation was wrong, and though his body ached for just a tinge of warm affection, he remained phlegmatic at the woman's touch, albeit anxiously rigid.

"My promising new addition's not getting a nasty bruja like you," Bautista scolded, standing up from his chair. "He's getting a girl of his own, remember?" He strolled across the room to one of the long end tables set against the wall, and poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter. Plucking the filled glass into his hand, Bautista walked casually toward Salem, taking a small sip of his alcohol as he went.

"As for where to stay," he continued, motioning to the entirety of the room. "How about this old place?"

Salem's eyes widened. "What, you mean-"

"Sí," Bautista smirked, clasping him on his armored shoulder. "It's yours now, my friend. Welcome home."

"Uh, I don't..." Salem muttered, licking his chapped lips. He was wary of accepting the immense endowment. Every tinge of hospitality felt as if he was greatly overstepping his bounds. Just this morning he was living like a worthless animal, and now he was being waited on by staff in a luxurious mansion his captives claimed to now be his. Much like Jezebel's flirtation, it all seemed, well, off. "That's, uh, real generous of ya."

The woman snickered. "He's got, what, three other ones? Compared to his place in Guadalajara, this is a-"

"Now, let's not boast, Jesse," Bautista interrupted. "Señor Guerras, the time?"

The armed cartel member that leaned silently against the back wall of the living room, seemingly stultified by the small group, briefly eyed his MTM Black Cobra watch, then looked back to his boss. "8:47."

"Good, good," the drug lord muttered to himself. "We better get going, amigo. Party's already started."

**2.7 Klicks to the South**

Salem warily followed Bautista and the woman, occasionally peering over his shoulder at the two other cartel members walking behind him on either side. He scrutinized the abandoned industrial park littered with aged buildings and the skeletons of old cars eaten away by rust and coated in peeling paint, the only signs of life being the numerous, muffled voices and a steady bass carrying over from a tin warehouse across the lot. He could make out low lights scarcely shining through the building's cracked, splotchy windows, as well as faded graffiti sprayed haphazardly over its dilapidated exterior. The armed cartel member behind him moved a little ahead to open one of the rusted, steel doors of the warehouse for Bautista and the woman on his arm, then flashed Salem an unnerving smirk as the big, scarred man ushered him in after them.

Inside, a boisterous, rowdy throng gathered on the two lower levels of the building, idly chatting, laughing, drinking, and leaning over the crooked railings of the top floor where the five had entered, watching and occasionally cheering at whatever spectacle lay below. Salem became rigid, uneasy about the idea of getting consumed by the raucous crowd, and startled slightly when he felt a rough nudge against his armor-plated back. The armed cartel member, Guerras Bautista had called him, motioned him forward with a slight nod of the head.

"Bienvenido al Hoyo."

Salem swallowed, then moved apprehensively toward the metal railing, gently pushing through the pack of cartel youths. He slowly peered over the edge of the balcony, placing a gloved hand on the rusted banister, and bracing himself for what may lie beneath.

Encircled in an arena of clamoring, shouting bodies trading crumpled bills and clanking bottles, two dogs, one jet black, the other brown and speckled with white, rolled and tumbled in the dirt floor, clashing teeth and tearing flesh. Their malicious, feral snarls, and sharp cries sent a chill down Salem's spine, and made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck much like the brawling hounds below. The dirt under their paws was spotted with blood from both parties, and more dripped behind the dogs as they slowly circled each other, their heads low to the floor, and their lips curling up to reveal their yellow, bloodied fangs.

The brown speckled one, a sort of shorthaired pointer mutt, pounced and rolled the black shepherd, igniting more ecstatic shouts from the crowd. The black dog lay pinned by his chained neck, and scratched feverishly at the other hound's pink belly with its hind legs. The two flipped again, kicking up a thick cloud of dust as they scrambled to overpower their opponent. The brown was thrown on his side, and struggled to regain his footing as the other dog charged. The shepherd pounced, clamping his jaw tightly around the downed hound's jugular. The black gave a violent jerk with his head, shaking and twisting the pointer's neck. The afflicted dog shrieked, then went limp in the shepherd's hold, and again the cartel horde hollered in unison at the grim victory. As the crowd began trading folds of money, the shepherd loosened his hold on the dead mutt. He kept his head low, snarling and flashing his dripping teeth over the corpse lying in the dirt.

Salem closed his eyes, and released a shaky breath, unaware that he was holding it in the first place. He warily looked back down at the arena, and watched as two men entered the ring. One snapped an order to the shepherd, and hooked a leash to its thick chain collar. The other hauled the dead hound off to the side to clear the scene, leaving a crimson trail like a gruesome paint stroke. Approaching footsteps send tremors across the rickety balcony, and felt the scarred man's familiar, large hand push him toward a creaking staircase. As they made their way downstairs, Salem felt multiple sets of eyes on him, and kept his gaze averted from the wild crowd that had now begun to notice him. They reached the foot of the steps, and the big man shoved Salem through the throng encircling the downstairs arena, where Bautista stood in the center, grinning and motioning him forward. He approached the cartel leader with a straightened, more confident appearing posture, trying his best to hide the slight limp from an earlier inflicted wound that forced him to favor his left leg. The drug lord patted him on the back, and began shouting lightheartedly at the numerous tattooed men and woman that watched him and Salem from above. With another charismatic sounding, Spanish comment, the crowd laughed and roared, shouting back with amusement. Salem, unable to understand what anyone was saying, was lost. His eyes wandered, landing on the black dog standing stoically by his master, his head still low to the ground as he stared back with amber colored eyes.

Salem found it strange how the shepherd seemed more human-like and real than the any of the people he'd met since being left behind, and even stranger just how much he sympathized with him. It seemed everyone he had met shrouded their true intentions behind amiable masks, friendly facades, but the dog's pain and past and life was shown in the deep scars and gashes across his muzzle, and his bloodied left paw that he held off the ground. The animal was easily labeled as a killer, his master's victor, but Salem saw a survivor. He saw a poor soul thrust into a life of violence and death, but tenaciously refused to be the one pinned to the ground and left to bleed out in the dirt. In that moment, the black dog that stared back at him was more of a person than any of the clamoring, shouting bodies that laughed and screamed for blood. Or maybe, Salem considered, he was becoming more of an animal.

Another hard pat on the back from Bautista pulled him from his thoughts, and he watched as the drug lord stepped back and disappeared into the throng. The blonde woman eyes him from the sidelines, flashing a sinister grin as she lazily blew him a kiss.

"¡Agárralo!" a familiar voice called.

Sounding like an order, Salem turned to face the speaker, and caught the black object that flew toward him. Opening his palm, he examined, with confusion, the knife sheath clutched in his hand. He slowly pulled the black grip, revealing a gleaming, curved blade cased inside the thick, cloth scabbard. Salem swallowed, and looked up to see the armed cartel member smirking back at him.

"¡Buena suerte!" the man called with a laugh.

Seeing the situation at hand, Salem furrowed his brow, trying to push down the panic that started building within him. More voices and laughter caught his ear, and he quickly turned back around. Sauntering casually from the rowdy crowd were three thugs, each brandishing blades of their own, snickering and spitting Spanish taunts as they neared. The center man the rolling his bare shoulders, and cracking his tattooed neck, flipped the wicked-looking blade around his fingers as he sneered, "Eh, gringo. You the new hombre everybody's been talking about, Flaco?"

"Am I the skinniest fuck in Mexico, or somethin'?" Salem muttered to himself, tossing aside the sheath.

"Not real impressed, are we boys?"

The other two laughed, still attempting to flank their opponent. Salem's eyes darted from one man to the next, and he began quickly running possible scenarios and attacks through his head. He figured he shouldn't talk back. Men like these fed on weakness, but appearing feeble may cause them to become overconfident and lower their guard. He gave up hiding his limp as he backed away toward the edge of the arena, all while keeping a safe distance from the crowd.

"Aw, you okay?" the center man asked with mock concern. "Leg's not looking so good. What happened to the big, bad Americano? The, uh, número dos, huh? Guess he's not such a tough guy after all. You want in La Guadaña, 'mano? Ha, so do we."

The thug on his right charged, screaming as he swung his blade at Salem's middle. Elliot drew back, ducked, then blocked another strike with his forearm, finally slamming his left elbow up under the attacker's chin, causing him to stumble back. Growling, Salem buried his blade into the side of the man's neck, and kicked him to the dirt. The gangster collapsed, softly sputtering and convulsing as he gripped his fatal wound. Salem huffed, and pushed his hair off of his sweat-dampened forehead. He scooped the dying man's weapon into his free hand, then took a defensive stance, both blades pointing downward in his clenched fists, his eyes filled with a building rage and bloodlust. The crowd roared in shrieking cheers, an antithesis to the silent shock of the two remaining men in the ring. The cartel recruit that had spoken to him barked an order to the man at his side, then the two stalked forward, more cautiously this time.

Almost overcome with lightheadedness, Salem stumbled slightly. He blinked in an attempt to clear his head, and quickly regained his footing. His exhausted body felt nearly spent from the first kill. He was still so weak, and he felt weighed down by the armor and recent loss of his friend. The thought of having to push his weary muscles twice more to take out his attackers nearly brought tears to his eyes. He shook the idea of simply giving up from his clouded mind, promising himself he wouldn't be dragged off to the side, and that his blood wouldn't streak the dirt under their boots. He had survived too much to go out like this, to die like a dog for their entertainment, even if it did mean killing for it. Salem took a deep breath through his nose, and exhaling slowly out his mouth, then adjusted his grip on the blades.

The warehouse was suddenly seemed very small, restricting. The stifling, muggy air felt suffocating, like inhaling smoke. The painfully familiar stench of death assaulted his nostrils, and churned his stomach as the vile scent brought on flashes of past firefights, battles, Rios. In his muddled mind, he was back in Iraq, Somalia, Kosovo, Shanghai and countless other war zones all at once. He could feel the sting of gunshots ringing in his ears, and taste foreign sands on his cracked lips. The fear in his chest turned to hatred, rage, and the men approaching him became, in his mindset, everyone that had wronged him, and every combatant that had made an attempt on his life. In that moment, these two thugs became Clyde, Dalton, Jonah, Ferrell, Rivas and even Rios. Salem's blood boiled, and his nostrils flared as his ferocity grew with each step the cartel members took. Feeling as if he was about to explode, he released a scream that shook his entire body, then charged.

He lunged first at the one that had spoken to him, erratically slicing his blades through the stale air. The man swiftly jumped back, bobbing and weaving to evade the crazed man's blows. Feeling of one of the weapons bite a deep gash into his forearm, the thug clenched his teeth in pain. The second gangster crouched silently behind their assailant, then pounced, growling as he swung his knife at the enraged man's lower back. Salem, hearing the guttural sound, spun and knelt on one knee, before digging one of his knives into the man's left leg just above his knee cap. The cartel member cried out, and fell on his back, pawing at the blade jutting from his lower thigh.

A hard, dull blow to the back of his neck forced Salem on his hands and knees. His vision blurred, disorienting him long enough for the first thug to land a powerful kick to his stomach. He rolled on his back, trying to catch the breath that had been knocked from his aching lungs.

"¡Agárralo¡" the first thug snapped to his surviving partner, his shouts barely heard over the roar of the crowd. He pressed his heavy boot to Salem's neck, and examined his bleeding arm with a pained hiss. The man wiped his bloody palm on the front of his jeans, and waited for the second gangster to grab his pinned victim's ankles before speaking in an airy, gruff voice.

"You're fuckin' crazy," he chuckled, wiping his brow as he watched the man beneath him weakly claw at his boot. "Oh, man. I'm gonna fuck you up."

Salem felt himself slipping out of consciousness. The lack of oxygen made the room spin, and his eyes heavy. He considered releasing his grip on the man's shoe, and simply falling to sleep, ending it right then and there, but seeing the leering faces of the cartel gathered around the arena and leaning over the balcony above in anticipation of his death sparked another wave of defiance within him. Weakly turning his head, he caught sight of the black shepherd tugging against his leash, barking and snarling at the brawling men. Salem clenched his jaw, filled with a new determination and fury. Growling, he took a firm grip of the boot on his throat, and gave it a sharp twist. The man screamed, and thudded to the ground, dropping his weapon to grasp his broken joint. The second thug, distracted by the debacle, briefly released their captive's legs. Salem kicked upward under the man's jaw, knocking him on his back. Grabbing an abandoned knife, he jumped to his feet, stumbling slightly as he caught his breath. When his head cleared, Salem threw the blade, lodging it deep into the second gangster's chest. He wiped the corner of his mouth as he approached the dying man, and crouched next to him. Taking the hilt of the weapon on his hand, he ripped it from the man's ribs, then stood, feeling somewhat satisfied to see the life leave his eyes. Salem then peered over his shoulder at the last thug, watching as he slid backward toward the edge of the arena.

"Hey, come on, man," the cartel member laughed shakily, fear welling up inside him at the sight of the burned man's stony glare as he drew closer. "Just-"

Exploiting his enemy's incapacity, Elliot kicked him hard in the cheek, knocking him back to the ground. The gangster clumsily struggled to get up, only to collapse on his back. Salem followed through with a stomp to the man's chest, knocking the breath out of him, and snapping his ribs. He then positioned his feet next to either side of the man's abdomen, then took a raptorial, crouching stance, examining his silent, agonized screams with intrigue. He lightly grazed his bloodied knife across the petrified man's cheek, barely breaking the skin.

"You think I'm crazy?" he muttered, a tinge of pain in his voice.

The man didn't respond, only eyed him in fearful anticipation for the final blow.

Salem chuckled tremulously, biting his lip as he scrutinized the cheering men and women around him. "Yeah, well, I'm startin' to think so, too."

In a swift motion, he flipped the blade downward in his palm, and raised it above his head, before finally plunging it in his attacker's heart. More whoops and hollers erupted from the crowd, their bloodlust satisfied for the night. Salem shakily got to his feet, and stumbled toward the center of the ring, unsure of what to do next. All of a sudden, he became aware of the sweat, blood, grime, and sand that had collected on his spent body, making him feel disgusting. He clenched his weary eyes shut, not even opening them when Bautista lifted his aching arm up in a symbol of victory, and patted him on the back in congratulations.

He vaguely remembered being guided up the creaking stairs of the warehouse, and the young, dark-haired woman timidly looping her arm around his, and being driven back to the luxurious mansion the drug lord had claimed was now his new home. The time it took to get to the palatial abode had passed in a blurred haze, and he awoke from his strange, time-altering trance sitting under a tepid stream of water running from a silver shower nozzle, resting his scraped forearms on his knees. Salem slowly stood, then with some reluctance, turned off the water. Stepping out into the steamy master bathroom, he grabbed a towel from the rack and clumsily dried himself. A fresh t-shirt and pair of boxer shorts folded neatly on the toilet seat caught his eye, and he scooped up the fresh clothing, unable to recall where exactly he had gotten them. Bunglingly, he slipped on the soft, cotton underwear and shirt, then staggered out of the bathroom into what he assumed was the adjoining master bedroom.

He froze in the doorframe when he saw a woman sitting on the far edge of the king-sized bed, hugging her bare legs to her chest. She was dressed in a revealing, scarlet dress that tightly hugged her curves, and her dark hair fell in lengthy waves over her shoulder. Salem figured she was in her mid to late twenties, but the dark, thick make-up shadowing her puffy, tear-filled eyes made it difficult to tell. He swallowed, and nodded awkwardly.

"Uh, hey," he murmured, his voice a bit slurred from pure exhaustion. He stepped forward, causing her to flinch. "No, no, I...ain't into that sort of thing. I'm just tired, okay? Look, I'd love to find another room, sure this place's got fifty other ones, but I'm too tired to wander around looking for one, so-"

He sighed heavily, and ran a hand through his damp hair. "You even speak English?"

The woman bit her lip, and nodded anxiously.

"Okay, just checkin'. Just, I don't wanna sleep on the floor either, okay? I've had to sleep on a floor for two months. I just... Shit."

He plopped down on the edge of the mattress, and held his face in his hands, resting his elbows on his thighs. "The hell am I doing?"

His eyes began to burn, then well up with tears. His small sniffles turned to body-shuddering cries as the day's events replayed through his muddled brain. He became lightheaded, and queasy, then shakily laid on his side, wishing the room would stop spinning, and that the pain would cease. "Just wanna go home," he muttered between sobs.

He felt idiotic for saying it, knowing there was no home left to go to, let alone the option to leave. There was no rescue, no one to help him escape this mendacious hellhole he'd been abandoned in. The lavished home and duplicitous refinement made him feel like a bird in a sumptuous cage. He had lost his freedom in exchange for his life. The ones that pulled him from the burning wreckage to spare it now claimed it as their own.

Minutes passed, then he felt a hand gently lay on his trembling shoulder. He didn't dare peer around at the woman, too abashed by his sudden display of weakness to face her, a complete stranger. Though he was still unnerved by unfamiliar touches, he didn't pull away. It was a minuscule gesture, but a kindhearted, reassuring one, something sadly more foreign to him than ballistic wounds. He felt her hand pull away, and the mattress shift. She walked past his field of vision, disappearing into the bathroom, where the trickling of the sink faucet caught his ear. Hearing the water shut off, and the soft patter of her bare feet across the tile floor, he watched her approach wordlessly, a damp washcloth in hand, and take a seat on the edge of the bed in front of him. He shamefully avoided her gaze as she dabbed the cloth over his forehead, and tear-streaked, scared cheek. Sobbing had drained the last iota of energy he had left in his fatigued, enervated frame, and he felt himself begin to sink deeper into the plush, downy pillow as he listened to the woman's comforting voice, as warming and soporific as the morphine fed into his veins that morning.

"Está bien," she whispered soothingly, watching as his eyes began to flutter shut, and his cries subsided. "Estàs a salvo ahora. Vaya a dormir."


End file.
